


The proof is in the pudding

by Oriberry



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Dark Castle, F/M, Mostly Fluff, The Dark One is out of his depth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-03 00:32:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14556984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriberry/pseuds/Oriberry
Summary: The not so very dark Dark One finds out just a little too late that honesty really is the best policy if he wants a quiet life in his own home because his maid doesn't take kindly to being lied to and it turns out his castle is more than capable of taking sides in the ensuing battle for supremacy.





	1. Chapter 1

Belle shivers. She wonders if it’s because the castle is cooler now, with its feet thick stone walls, as the worst of today’s heat fades a little or whether it’s down to the sense of anticipation that always runs through her veins when she’s on her way to see Rumplestiltskin. 

Or as she prefers to think of him: Rumple.

Rumple, with his sharp tongue and his sharper mind. Rumple with his amber, unblinking eyes. Rumple with his golden skin that shimmers in the sun and snaggly teeth. Rumple who can be so fierce yet so skittish. Rumple who can be all trills and dramatic gestures when he has an audience but when nobody’s looking, is as still and quiet as a mouse. 

He’s a mystery wrapped up in layers of silk shirts, lacy scarves and leather and scales. And there’s nothing Belle loves more than a good mystery. Well, maybe a man (imp) who can wear pants that close fitting.

She glances down at the heavily ornate silver tray she’s carrying. Precariously balanced on it are two bowls of rhubarb fool that look delicious (or at least more delicious than the plum pudding whose filling had oozed out through the cracks in the pasty to pool on the work surface and is now on the back doorstep for the foxes to pick at). 

Since being brought to live here Belle has discovered an unexpected love of baking, an interest supported by both the castle itself which has taken to replenishing the cupboards with ever more interesting and exotic produce (last week it was quinces, the week before honey flavoured with aniseed) and by Rumple who, all nervous energy and quirked lips, had presented her with a recipe book not long after her interest in all things sweet and savoury had ignited, twittering about how she might it helpful in her culinary endeavors (“If you’ll have it”).

Belle hasn’t seen a great deal of Rumple the last few days so she’d thought she’d make him a treat because honestly he spends far too much time closeted away hunched over his bench that is usually covered with whatever he needs for his latest spells (dried herbs that smell of sun and dust, locks of raven black hair, jars filled with the finest grains of sand, shells, corals - all sorts of things she itches to get a closer look at if he didn’t insist on keeping her at arms’ length) and she sometimes thinks he’d fade away if he wasn’t immortal. He certainly tends to just pick at whatever it is she serves him although she’s caught him on more than one occasion conjuring up fruit tarts when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Twelve months ago this lack of company would have been a problem; Belle used to be someone accustomed to having people around her at all times, be it Lucy who laced Belle into her corsets and brushed her hair until it shone like burnished copper, or Cuthbert, the stable lad, who used to allow Belle to sneak away for a canter across the open spaces surrounding their castle. Or even her father when he wasn’t busy planning his latest battle strategy against neighbouring knights too keen on plundering and pillaging his lands. 

But now, living in this huge but strangely comforting castle that seems to enjoy looking after her (soft-as-butter blankets on her bed during the winter, thin woven silk slippers and elaborately decorated parasols when the sun beats down on her) with an ever contrary, unpredictable sorcerer, Belle has learned to enjoy her time alone.

She’s acquired not just a raft of new hobbies that keeps her busy, as well as access to Rumple’s library with enough books to keep her busy until the end of time, but she has also befriended a stray tabby cat (Bertie) who appeared one stormy night, wet and bedraggled, meowing piteously to be let in, and who now completely rules over the kitchen, terrorising the mice and zealously guarding the most comfortable chair for himself. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the castle had nudged Bertie in her direction, knowing she’d enjoy spoiling him and having someone to grumble to about her employer’s more annoying foibles.

Speaking of annoying, as she reaches the entrance to Rumple’s lair, there’s a muffled explosion from within that makes the delicate glass chandeliers adorning the hallway tinkle and shake, followed by a string of curse words that might sully more delicate ears. Belle however is made of sterner stuff so she raps sharply on the oak door.

“Rumple? What’s going on in there? Are you alright? Is it safe for me to come in?”

There’s nothing but silence for a moment and then the door is thrown open, revealing a slightly dishevelled figure sporting singed sleeves and spots of soot on his face. 

Her reward for showing concern is a wagging finger in her face.

She wants to bite it. Hard. And then maybe suck it in to her mouth. (What would his skin feel like beneath her tongue?)

A brusque “What do you want Dearie?’ intrudes into her thoughts. Belle goggles at his lack of gratitude before pushing past him, tray still in her hands, to march over to where several bell jars sit on his workbench, bubbling innocently, tiny puffs of purple smoke belching out at irregular intervals. 

“What is going on here,” she repeats, ever fearless, as bright curls and brighter eyes dazzle him for a moment and not for the first time make him regret having let her take down all the curtains in the castle. “You disappear without a word, I don’t see you for days and then this” - she raises an eyebrow at him - “happens.”

“This?” Rumple queries, sounding almost surprised, looking around him, as if he’s trying to understand what she’s talking about. There’s another small belch of smoke that smells of rotting eggs and for a moment both of them wince. “Why, this is nothing my dear, merely a minor chemical reaction. Nothing to concern your pretty head with.”

He backs up suddenly as he sees Belle immediately bristle. He knows from bitter experience that being jabbed in his midriff by one of Belle’s long fingernails is not a pleasant experience so creating a little more space between them seems like a prudent next step. He is starting to edge his way over to the bench when her sharp “Don’t patronise me Rumplestiltskin” arrests him mid-shuffle because he can’t remember the last time she used his full name. He has to forcibly stop himself from shifting from one foot to another, like a naughty school child. 

Belle fixes him with her arctic blue eyes. “I’ll repeat my question. What exactly is going on here? I get the sense you’re hiding something from me.”

Rumple tries hard to show her the neutral expression he uses when he’s just about to clinch an advantageous deal but he suspects, judging by the triumphant grin that makes his maid’s face light up in a way that has his stomach fluttering, that she’s onto him.

Because truth be told, he has indeed taken to skulking in his laboratory, hiding away from Belle, with her boundless curiosity and appalling culinary skills. He’s not sure which is worse. The fact that she isn’t in the slightest bit afraid of him, despite his scaly skin and long claws, or the fact that she can’t even manage to cobble together the simplest dish without setting something on fire. If he didn’t know her any better he’d think she was doing it on purpose, to drive him to an early grave (doesn’t she know he’s immortal)?

In fact, only earlier today, while holding the phial of silver liquid he’d been shaking up to the light to check on its viscosity, he had found himself wondering just how hard it actually was to make a loaf of bread (not very hard at all, he feels). And remembering back to how difficult it was to remove solidified dough from the kitchen ceiling (extremely, especially when the ‘Help’ was getting under his feet, offering unsolicited advice on scrubbing techniques while spilling copious amounts of various cleaning solutions that only ended up bleaching the sleeves of his favourite blue shirt). 

A rapid foot tapping tells him that Belle is still waiting for an answer but Rumplestiltskin has not reached the ripe old age of 300 without learning the skills of deflection so he points at the bowls on the tray and enquires as to what delight (atrocity) she’s prepared for (inflicted on) him. 

And it works. 

Belle’s face lights up with pleasure.

“It’s rhubarb fool, a recipe from the book you gave me. Nothing complicated, just rhubarb from the garden, a spoonful or two of sugar and a dash of cream.”

If he didn’t know better (but sadly he does), Rumplestiltskin could almost be tricked into thinking the pale pink confection in front of him would be delicious. However, bitter experience tells him it’s best to err on the side of caution. He was a victim of one of Belle’s earliest attempts at a meat pie not long after he brought her to the castle and even now he can’t see a lamb without shuddering.

He trills, trying to let her down gently and save himself from an evening of severe indigestion. “Now, now Dearie. There’s no need to go to all this trouble on my behalf. Dark One don’t eat.” 

The frown that dances across her face tells him she’s about to interrupt him (and possibly call him out on his fondness for raspberry tartlets) so he resorts to dismissing her in as abrupt a way as he can muster but then Belle’s eyes dim a little and well, damn and blast it, that will never do, so hastily he picks up one of the dainty teaspoons and dips it into the bowl that seems to hold the smaller portion. One cautious (and truly terrible) mouthful later and it becomes all too apparent that Belle has inadvertently substituted salt for sugar. 

Conscious that his every reaction is being monitored he attempts to put a brave face on things, pronouncing the dessert as one of her best yet while mentally willing the castle to at least nudge her in the direction of the right ingredients before she does him a serious injury. 

Belle’s back to beaming in a way that makes his heart swell, and then she takes her leave of him but not before admonishing him to finish the rest of it and asking him in a sweet (not sweet) voice to try and refrain from blowing them all to kingdom come.

Heaving a huge sigh of relief when the door closes behind her and congratulating himself on dodging a bullet, he tips the rest of the pudding out of a window before returning to examine the contents of the phial, which has thickened to the consistency of one of the better vegetable soups he’s been fed in the last month or so (a low bar but). 

Before long he’s completely immersed in finely chopping sorrell and moss into the finest pieces possible, the thought of Belle pushed to the back of his mind - for the time being at least.

~

Down in the kitchen, Belle scratches under the chin of the cat who prrrps in pleasure, and then fetches a spoon. She’s hungrier than she’d like to admit and has been looking forward to tasting her latest creation for some time. If Rumple’s reaction was anything to go by, it’s clearly really rather tasty.

Ten seconds later and she’s frantically drinking a glass of water in an attempt to rid her mouth of the taste of salt.

Salt. How on earth had she managed to make such a serious mistake? And more to the point, how on earth had Rumple managed to eat his portion. Sighing, Belle opens the back door and tips the rest of the gooseberry fool out so it lands on top of the remains of the plum pudding which - rather bafflingly - is still lying on the doorstep. Returning to her favourite seat, she rests her face in her hands, feeling more than a little dissatisfied with life. 

Three seconds later and it hits her like a bolt of lightning. 

He’s been lying to her all this time. It has nothing to do with a lack of appetite, it has nothing to do lacking taste buds, and instead everything to do with being a great big sparkly lizardly liar, leading her on and laughing at her behind her back. 

“Well fine,” Belle huffs out loud. “If that’s how you want to play it…” and her voice trails away, a mind so full of ideas as to how she can wreak revenge that the ripple that flows across the kitchen goes unfelt although Bertie suddenly sits bolt upright, whiskers quivering and green eyes bright and alert.

It seems Belle may have just acquired a powerful ally.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s probably fair to say that the all powerful, all seeing Dark One is not having the best of weeks. 

Firstly, if he’s not mistaken, his maid is very much giving him the cold shoulder. Gone are the warm smiles and the tiny touches and gestures he hadn’t realised he’d become accustomed to until they were so abruptly withheld. Secondly, and possibly even more worrying, he thinks he’s almost certainly losing his faculties. Jars of precious ingredients previously left on his work bench have been turning up in the most ridiculous places (his water closet for one). He cannot for the life of him find his favourite woven scarf, the one with the spinning wheels on it, or the matching shirt of gold silk. If Belle wasn’t steadfastly ignoring him, he’d ask her but to be perfectly honest, the alternative of simply putting up with the inconvenience of not being able to find anything is becoming ever more appealing.

Rumplestilstkin glares at himself in the full length mirror. Or rather he glares at the parts of him he can actually make out from in-between the patches of dust because, to add insult to injury, Belle would seem to have gone on strike, choosing to spend almost all of her time hidden away in the library, reading ghastly romances that feature lusty pirates and buxom barmaids if the book covers are anything to judge by. 

It would appear that the fearsome Dark One has lost control both of his staff and his castle.

This suspicion is confirmed just a few moments later when with a click of his fingers a peach coloured leather jerkin appears in his clawed hands. In the time it takes for him to draw breath, a pile of pink soot is at his feet and a moment after that and it’s gently disappearing in a plume out of the nearest window,

“Fine, if that’s how you want to play it,” Rumplestiltskin bellows, shaking his fist at the ceiling before stomping over to his wardrobe to tug open the door. Which refuses to budge. There ensures a rather undignified tussle which culminates in him having to throw a fireball at the lock.

Once the smoke clears and Rumplestiltskin finally manages to stop coughing, he sees two things: a row of smouldering dragonskin coats that are among his favourites are damaged beyond repair and his maid, hands on hips and frown on face, standing in the doorway. Infuriated, he pulls out two or three of the least badly damaged shirts and tosses them at Belle’s feet where they land with a soft thud, a tangle of crimson, sapphire blue and sienna.

“Nice of you to make an appearance dearie” he says, snippily. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, those could do with a little repair work. And make it snappy.” One click of his fingers in her face and she is banished to the kitchen, a second click and he’s up in his workshop, where he spends the next thirty minutes in a futile search for his collection of moths’ wings.

Behind them the wardrobe makes a noise that could almost be a chuckle.

***

Belle is curled up in her favourite chair in the kitchen, a ball of thick yarn at her feet that Bertie taps with a white paw every now and then to check to see if it’s alive and a blood-red shirt in her hands. 

As befitting a noble woman’s upbringing, Belle’s needlework is exquisite. Her Yuletide present to Rumple was a set of delicate lace handkerchiefs with an elaborate ‘R’ woven into each corner. Although he hadn’t said very much at the time she’d seen the way his fingers carefully traced the lettering and when dusting his bedroom soon afterwards, Belle noticed that he was using one as a bookmark, which had made her heart flutter with pleasure.

However, it is probably fair to say that this morning her handiwork is anything but exquisite. The wool she has selected for the task is thick, coarse and makes her skin itch. It is also a rather terrible shade of yellow that will clash most dreadfully with both the red silk and his glittery skin. This double atrocity, combined with the fact she’s patching the holes up in a raggedy cross stitch that her five-year old self would have been appalled by, makes her confident of one thing.

He’s going to hate it.

A hour passes in quiet contentment before Belle holds up the finished article in front of her, asking out loud, to nobody in particular “well, what do you think then?” There’s a moment’s silence and then three oak cabinet drawers beneath the sink start rapidly opening and closing, swiftly followed by a set of cupboard doors that clatter enthusiastically. 

Belle takes a mock bow, enjoying the applause and then trots up the stone staircase towards the entrance to the Great Hall. The click clacking sound of the spinning wheel tells her that Rumple is trying to calm himself down. Smirking to herself, she leans down to leave the shirts just outside before tiptoeing back down to the kitchen, looking forward to a nice cup of tea and picking up where she’d left off with ‘The Love Pirate.’

Back in her lair the silver kettle is already heating up nicely. Belle bustles around the kitchen, selecting her favourite cup and saucer (white porcelain so fine you can see the light through it, with a delicate gold rim and tiny blue and white flowers) and an almond biscuit. 

At last, she’s settled in an armchair, cat in lap, and can savour the peace and quiet and pick up where she’d left off from with her book. Which lasts all of half an hour. 

A roar bounces off the kitchen walls and even though she’d been expecting it, she still spills a little of her tea into the saucer. 

“Belle.”

She strokes Bertie’s head.

“Belle.” This time the roar rattles the china.

One. Two. Thr…

An enraged imp appears in a cloud of smoke that makes the cat sneeze. He’s wearing the red shirt. The stitching looks even better (worse) than she could have hoped for. Belle’s eyes dance but the tone when she speaks is placid. “You found your shirts then?” 

The clack of his jaw is audible as he stares at her in angry disbelief before doing a rapid 360 degree turn, sleeves billowing as he moves, and Belle marvels at his neverending flair for the dramatic.

When Rumple comes to a standstill, he’s breathing hard, his strange reptilian eyes blazing and Belle can feel the rage pouring off him in waves. And it’s not for show. A tiny flicker of something that might be fear, might be excitement, ripples through her. He looks dangerous.

One step, then another and he’s far too close to her, she can feel his warm breath on her face, his shirt sleeve soft against her bare skin.

Suddenly and entirely unexpectedly he lunges at her, grabbing her face with one hand.

“Do you think you’re being clever, hmm?” He’s snarling, baring his mossy teeth. “You think you can play games with the Dark One? Well, think again dearie, because if you like playing with fire, you’re likely to get yourself burned.”

His grip, while not painful, is firm and Belle is now completely off kilter, unable to predict what’s going to happen next. She stumbles slightly and Rumplestiltskin loosens his hold on her. 

Belle takes advantage of the temporary reprieve and starts to beat a diplomatic retreat, only to see her adversary stalking after her, never taking his eyes off her face. They dance around the kitchen, one step at a time, until she bumps up against the stove.

There’s nowhere for her to run so she waits, slightly out of breath, until Rumplestiltskin is again right in front of her. The cat and mouse chase has made her heart race and she knows her face is flushed. 

“Or is it that you want to to get burned, see how it feels?” Rumplestiltskin persists, his voice now sounding rougher and somehow more human. “Well, because that could most certainly be arranged.” 

And then in a fit of pique, he suddenly rips the shirt he’s wearing apart and throws the pieces on to the kitchen table.

There’s a very long pause. Belle thinks Rumple might suddenly be regretting his impetuous behaviour judging by the clenching and unclenching of his hands that hang by his side but Belle isn’t in the slightest bit sorry. 

Because he’s beautiful, really really beautiful. No scales, just skin, smooth and hairless, that by turn is glittering gold, then shimmering green. Belle has a sudden urge to touch him, to find out if it feels as soft as it looks. Without consciously realising it, her eyes slowly track from his throat, where she sees him swallow convulsively, down to his chest, and then onto the flat planes of his stomach.

Without making a conscious decision, she finds herself closing the gap between them, her eyes locking on to his.

He swallows again but remains silent.

Another step forward and now Belle’s so close they’re almost touching. One step more and they are. She’s delighted to have her suspicion confirmed; that his skin is as soft as it looks. And it’s warm. Unable to stop herself, her hand goes up to rest on his chest. His heart is beating fast, like a bird’s, and then his hand comes to rest on hers, holding it in place.

“Belle.” It’s nothing more than a whisper, but she can hear a quaver of fear in it.

Risking an upwards glance through her lashes, the heat in his gaze leaves her momentarily breathless. 

She can do this. She can be brave for them both.

Standing on tiptoe, Belle brushes her lips against Rumple’s cheek and lets her eyes flutter shut. The first move has been made; the next is up to him.


End file.
